


Out of Hand

by Lightningpants



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-13 05:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13564242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpants/pseuds/Lightningpants
Summary: This is an exploration of Joe's OCD.  I'm fascinated by the anxieties he has and couldn't help but add to them.  TW for eating disorders.  In this over-dramatized drabble is loads of hurt/comfort and descriptions of illness.





	1. They're Noticing

Chandler groaned as the last sandwich left in the bag fell to the ground, accidentally dropped by Kent. Mansell had the misfortune of stepping directly on it, and then slipping. He howled in pain as he grabbed his ankle. The DI helped him to a chair, where Mansell laughed it off. Felled by a sandwich! That was ridiculous. Miles had already opened his lunch and taken a bite when he looked up and saw his boss’s disappointed face. He didn’t have any food, while the rest of them had already tucked in. 

“You want half, boss?” Miles offered to cut him off a piece. He watched Joe recoil with a thinly veiled expression of disgust that was quickly replaced with a polite smile.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” He breathed, turning on his heel and vanishing into his office.  
Miles watched him through the window in his office unwrap a granola bar and chew it mindlessly as he studied a file.

***

They had been on a stakeout for hours, waiting for the killer to make an appearance. Setting up a trap like this took weeks of careful planning and second guessing of motives. The team was amped on adrenaline. Chandler, in particular, was edgy and short tempered. Earlier in the evening, they sat at a window table in an Italian restaurant, and ordered dinner while maintaining an eye on the apartment. 

The boys ordered food, big plates of pasta, chicken saltimbocca. The boss looked mystified when the waitress asked what he wanted to eat. He asked for spaghetti Bolognese, but when it arrived, Kent watched him pick at the food, lifting strands of spaghetti and putting them down as if searching for something. There was something odd about the way his boss approached food. 

Most of them witnessed it, but none had ever mentioned it to him. Miles had seen the way he grimaced as he ate the pie and mash, as if he were struggling internally with something. The only time Kent had really seen him eat was at the Japanese sushi place for his birthday. He had also drunk a lot of sake. He wondered if there was something more to his eating habits, or if it was just another idiosyncrasy to add to the pile.

***

The waitress sat the steaming plate of pasta down in front of Joe. He was feeling hungry and the smells in the restaurant were making his mouth water. Looking up from his plate, he noticed that the cuff of the woman’s uniform had a brown stain on it. He tried not to wonder about what it was. Mansell next to him sloppily chewed his dinner. There was raucous laughter. From an open door to the kitchen, he could view an overflowing garbage can. The door to the restaurant opened and let in a fly that circled over the table. 

He knew he should eat, that he would be able to focus better if he consumed some of the food he ordered. Once he lifted a forkful to his mouth and began chewing it, Miles talked about the case they were working on and he felt his anxiety spike. The food felt like glue in his mouth. He had to resist spitting it out into his napkin in revulsion. Shutting his eyes, he forced himself to swallow, hoping someone at the table wouldn’t notice his discomfort. Someone was asking him a question, but in his sensory overload, he hadn’t heard it.

“Sorry, what were you asking?” He looked up from his plate and reached for the glass of water to clean the taste of potentially contaminated pasta from his mouth.

Kent cleared his throat and asked again, “You alright, sir? Something the matter with your food?” He gestured to his full plate. Most of the other members of his team had nearly empty plates and his was the odd one out.

“Mmm, I’ve just lost my appetite is all.” Chandler admitted, flashing his sad blue eyes at Kent. 

“Wendy can bring you something else.” Miles looked at him with concern.

“No, I need to be ready to chase this perp down. I think I’m alright.” The boss ended the conversation by spreading his napkin over the food. Miles glanced at Kent and they shared fretful looks.

***

“Kent.” Miles whispered. They had split up and were supposed to be monitoring the apartment from several angles. Kent and Miles were together by the fountain, Mansell and Riley played chess in the park and Chandler sat on a bench reading a newspaper.  
Kent gazed at Miles questioningly. “What’s up, skip?”

“Do you notice anything odd about your boyfriend lately?” He tossed a handful of pebbles into the water.

“Lately? He is permanently odd, sir.” Kent smiled at Miles, who didn’t return his jovial attitude. “Right. Well, he seems worked up about this case, I think. But no more than any other case. They seem to consume him.”

“Exactly!” Miles huffed. “I think our DI is flirting with an eating disorder.”

“Isn’t that the realm of teenage girls and such, sir?” Kent frowned at the suggestion.

“He’s not eating properly. He orders food and doesn’t eat it. I’d say he’s lost a stone since the beginning of the month. I’d be a rotten detective to not notice it. I looked it up online.”

“Well, maybe, but we can’t really legislate what he eats, can we, sir? He’s a grown man and until he becomes ill or has a crisis, we can’t do much about it.”

“That’s where you come in, Kent. You live with the man, take note of what’s going on with the food situation.” Miles paused to see how Kent would react. He showed no reaction at all. 

“I’m actually quite concerned. If I do bring it up, more walls go up and he won’t talk about anything. He won’t go see a therapist about the OCD.” Kent looked like he was close to tears. “Sir, I believe you should bring it up with him, he won’t listen to me.”


	2. One of Those Nights

The stakeout had ended well.  Once the criminal left the apartment, the team descended on him.  Mansell took him down, but got knocked out.  The perp got past Riley, but then was tackled by Chandler.  He came down hard, immobilized the criminal with cuffs and then allowed Miles to lead him away to a waiting squad car.  Riley was checking on Mansell, while Kent crouched down to see how Chandler was.

“You alright, Joe?” He had gotten used to seeing his boyfriend throwing himself in the line of fire, but he dispensed with the formality of sir.

Chandler nodded and accepted Kent’s hand up.  Kent noticed him go pale and steadied him.  “What’s wrong?” He asked again.

“I’m alright.  Just got the wind knocked out of me.” Chandler blew out a long breath.  He bent down to catch his breath and let his vision clear.  Crumpling back to the ground would alarm Kent and ensure that he was dragged to casualty. 

“Why don’t I drive you home, Joe, please?  It’s been a long night.”  Kent’s fingers curled around the edge of his stubborn boyfriend’s coat.  They had sort of moved in together.  At least, Kent still had his apartment.  Their relationship was progressing at a very slow rate.  Kent was pleased with it nonetheless.  He had endless patience for Joe and scoffed when Riley had commented on his hero worship. 

Joe cleared his throat, “Mmmm.”  His hand moved from the knees of his trousers to rest on Kent’s shoulder.  His hand slipped away when he saw the rest of the team gathering around to check on their leader.  Chandler assured them that he was fine.  He issued directions, and they left to go back to the station.  Miles flanked him on the right, and Kent drifted along on the left as they went back to the squad car. 

Chandler got in on the passenger side, Kent in the back, while Miles drove.  It gave him the perfect opportunity to not make eye contact while he berated his DI. 

“You looked a bit shaky back there.  You sure you’re alright?”  Miles pulled the car out into traffic, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I came down hard, but I’m fine.”  Chandler made a dismissive flap with his hand in Miles’s direction.

“You’ve got to eat more.”  Miles looked into the rear-view mirror at Kent.  “You’ve noticed too, haven’t you?  He’s lost weight, looking peaky.”  Kent frowned and silently agreed with Miles.  He didn’t want to gang up on Joe.

“I had a cold last week.  I’ll be back in top form soon.  I can do my job, Miles.  I don’t need mothering.”  Chandler shifted in his seat.  The conversation was making him uneasy in a way he could not determine.  He changed the topic away from his health and back to the criminal they were following back to the station.

 

***

Once the paperwork for the arrest was complete, and they heard from Riley who had gone with Mansell to the hospital, their day was finished.  Kent popped his head into Chandler’s office and tilted his head in the direction of the door.  Joe smiled, a relaxed and weary smile.  “Right.  I know.  I’m coming.”  He began stacking papers into folders and sliding them into file cabinets.  He was glad Kent was there to drag him out of the office.  He’d stay too long if he were on his own, agonizing over word choice in the statements, fretting over the alignment of the staple to the edge of the page. 

Kent stood, with his coat on watching Joe, thinking about what Miles had said.  He could see that Joe had lost more than a stone.  His belt was a few notches tighter, and he knew that Joe was aware of the sudden drop in mass.  He saw Joe fiddling with that belt one morning recently.  They were late because he spent half an hour obsessing over the length of the end.  Kent had said nothing. 

Finally, he finished shifting the papers and stood, pausing for a good ten seconds.  Kent noticed the blank look on his face and his hands pressed against the desktop.

“Joe?”

Chandler didn’t answer immediately.  He rested one hand on the desk and massaged his temples with the other.  “Sorry, Em.”  He wouldn’t look up at Kent.  “Just a little vertigo.” 

Kent felt like he spent too much of his day frowning at Joe.  'Just a little vertigo' looked an awful lot like nearly blacking out.  “Look.  Let’s get you home.  I think you should listen to Miles and eat something.  What’s the cause of all this dizziness and vertigo?”  He felt his shoulders rising to his ears as he spoke to Joe.  He tried not to push things with him even when he was feeling increasingly worried.  It only made him retreat. 

“Yes, let’s get home and eat something.  With this case over and the perpetrator in custody safely, I finally feel I have some breathing room.”  Joe gained momentum as he put on his watch and gathered his coat. 

Kent and Chandler rode home in companionable silence, except for a brief conversation about what they had in the fridge at home.  Chicken breasts, salad and assorted vegetables.  Joe offered to get the meal going when he got in, and Kent could pop down to the shops for a bottle of wine.

When Kent returned from the store, there was a distinct lack of cooking smells.  Instead, he found Joe standing at the sink in the kitchen, frantically scrubbing his hands.  The chicken was raw and on a plate on top of a stack of paper towels on the counter.  The vegetables were still in the fridge and no pans were on the stove.  Joe didn’t look up when the door latched shut. 

Kent’s heart sank.  It was going to be one of those nights. 


	3. Dinner and a Movie

Kent bought two bottles of red wine and a few packages of biscuits.  He had been hoping for a very normal evening followed by a perfectly lazy morning.  This was the second time he had encountered Joe in his apartment stuck in a loop of anxiety and compulsive hand washing.  He wanted to break into his head-space as gently as possible to prevent what happened last time.  It was two weeks ago when Kent found Joe lathered to the elbows over the prospect of going to dinner with some of Kent’s family.  Emerson had snapped a towel at Joe and bellowed something about hurry up, they were waiting.  That was the wrong tactic.  It had annoyed Joe so much that he refused to get dressed and holed himself up in the bedroom with a bottle of vodka.  Kent ultimately went without him and had slept in his own apartment for the next four days.

“Shall I open this?”  Kent waved a bottle of Pinot Noir in Joe’s peripheral vision.  Joe seemed to be looking through him.  “Hey, let me turn off this boiling hot water.  Let’s sit down.”  Kent spoke softly to his friend.  Joe’s hands were lobster-red and trembling slightly.  Kent pulled Joe over to the sofa to sit. 

“Something’s going on that I don’t understand, love.”  Kent pleaded with Joe.  “You have to talk to me about what’s happening inside your head.”  He brushed the side of his face with his hand. 

Joe nodded, grasping Kent’s hand.  “I’m feeling powerless to it, Em.”  Tears flooded his eyes.  “I don’t know what started it, but I’m having trouble with food.  Sometimes it’s a smell.  Or an image that I can’t get out of my head.  The chicken, I can’t….what if I don’t cook it properly?  You’ll get sick, I’ll get sick.  I have to wash everything carefully.  Just thinking about all of those things makes me nauseated.”  He took a deep breath and sighed.

Kent hugged him.  He wanted to say something sooner, but hadn’t wanted to bring on another bout of binge drinking.  Now he was worried about getting him out of this thought pattern and eventually into eating something other than a granola bar or sealed yoghurt. 

“How about this,” Kent paused to make eye contact.  “I’ll poach the chicken, you make the salad.  I promise to clean and scour and scrub.  No one will get sick.  You have to eat.  If you don’t, you’ll waste away and I can’t have that.”

Joe nodded.  He squeezed his friend one more time with gratitude and no small amount of embarrassment before he stood and spotted the bottle of wine on the counter.  He should eat something before getting into that.  But, having a drink would relax him.  It definitely worked better than the thought stopper.  He would be able to think less about whether he touched the handle of the refrigerator after he cut open the package of chicken.  When the package broke open, had it splashed chicken droplets on his sweater?  He felt the sudden need to change his shirt.

As Joe stripped off the probably clean shirt, he mused worriedly about his relationship with Emerson.  He was surprised that Em was still with him.  He woke nearly every morning and looked to see if Em was still there.  He sometimes spent nights in his own apartment, but for the majority of the time, Em was there next to him.  They hadn’t been intimate and it had been nearly twelve weeks of official dating.  Joe’s sudden aversion to certain foods and situations had started shortly after they had gotten together.  Now that he was in a relationship, he had to deal with this odd relationship he had with his body.  Being with Kent made him feel less lonely and the affection was welcome, but he struggled with revealing all his feelings to Kent.

He opened the bottle of wine with a certainty and smoothness that was utterly lacking in his cooking that evening.  Joe poured out two hefty glasses and handed one to Kent. 

“Thanks, love.”  He kissed Joe on the cheek, took a sip of wine and then kissed him on the mouth.  Joe could taste the wine on his lips and he could feel himself unwinding just a little bit at a time.

Joe sipped at his wine and began working on the salad.  It was pre-packaged and triple washed.  He didn’t do anything other than shake it out onto the plate.  Emerson slipped the chicken breasts into a pot of simmering water on the stove.  Joe started watching him move about the kitchen, but found he was getting too anxious, following the trail of raw chicken juices and questioning Kent’s hygiene. 

He finished arranging the vegetables on the plate and retreated to the sofa with his glass of wine.  He chugged it rather greedily and the alcohol left him feeling nothing much at all.  Em would change his shirt if he asked.  He was afraid he’d be unable to eat dinner if he didn’t.

Joe called into the kitchen, “Em, can you change your shirt before we eat?”

He was much relieved to hear Kent call back, “Yes, I will.  Pick something out for me while I finish this up?” 

***

Kent kept an eye on Joe, worrying about the combination of the wine and the dizziness from earlier.  The more he fretted, the more anxious it made Joe, so he simply placed a large bottle of mineral water near Joe’s place, hoping he’d re-hydrate and actually eat dinner.  He noticed a spot on Joe’s fork and lifted it up, rubbing it clean with the front of his sweatshirt.  A spot on his cutlery was enough to derail him from eating altogether.  He patted the silverware into parallel lines and moved to the couch to pick up a new shirt.

The meal was simple and healthy, something Joe would make for himself.  He thanked Emerson profusely for stepping in to prepare the food.  Emerson was grateful that Joe was actually eating and not slicing up his chicken and pushing it around the plate.  The wine and food put some much needed color back in his cheeks.  Before long, Emerson and Joe were nestled into the sofa, resting in front of a tv program, the dishes stacked and dried. 

Joe was exhausted.  He nearly fell asleep with Em on the sofa, but managed to extract himself to head to bed.  Changing into pajamas and brushing his teeth took an effort he wasn’t sure he could manage.  The blonde man lay under the covers for a few minutes and nearly drifted off when he felt Em get in on the other side. 

He arranged his book and pillow so his reading light wouldn’t shine in Joe’s face.  His attention drifted from the book to his boyfriend’s lanky form.  He shifted from side to side, making a barely audible groan.

“You ok, Joe?” Emerson whispered.  “You’re squirming about.”

Joe sighed.  “Can you make me some chamomile tea?”

“I can.  Anxious dreams?”  Emerson slipped his socks back on so he could switch the kettle on.

“Something like that,” Joe shifted in bed.  He didn’t want to admit out loud that the anxiety induced nausea he felt all day had turned into more difficult to ignore stomach pains.  It was often like this in his head.  Em stopped to watch him twist the sheets in the bed as he shifted again from right side to left side, a very unusual occurrence.  Joe generally liked to sleep with his coverings neatly arranged.


	4. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for vomiting and grossness, nothing extreme, but it's there.

Kent brought him the tea with a saucer.  Joe sat up slowly, squinting at Em in the low light and taking the cup with warm hands. 

“Thanks, I’m feeling, um, uncomfortable,” he said, irritably, blowing on the tea before he took a sip.

“What’s wrong?”  Emerson sank down onto the bed next to his boyfriend, “Is it gas?  Salad gives me gas.” He shrugged and peeked at Joe, who often tired of his scrutiny.  Joe had an odd expression on his face, like he was mentally very far away, but also in pain. 

Joe shook his head, his skin going a bit green, “No, god, I think I’m going to be ill.”  He shuddered and threw the covers off, knocking the tea to the floor and stumbled to the bathroom, banging the lid of the toilet seat up.  Emerson listened, waiting in the silence of the bedroom.  His heart sank when he heard the dreaded coughing and gagging.  He picked up the dropped cup and saucer.  The tea had already begun to seep into the carpet.  He wondered if he had done something wrong with the chicken.  Joe would never let him cook ever again.  Or, was their new relationship the reason Joe had been losing weight?  Was this physical reaction a result of so much anxiety that he couldn’t keep food down and it was unrelated to him?  What mattered most at this point, he thought, was helping Joe cope with the mess, and then he could sleuth out the reasons behind it.

***

Joe was miserable.  His stomach cramped in waves, and he spat endlessly into the toilet, trying not to touch the bowl, but at a certain point, he needed leverage and he grabbed it.  Emerson had come in when he heard the moaning and puking.  He dabbed at his face with a cool cloth and helped him up and back to bed.  Joe struggled with him and wouldn’t lie down.  He weakly pulled off his t-shirt, pausing to rest on the bed a moment.  He felt the sweat on his skin drying and leaving a film.  He was nearly certain there was vomit on his sweatpants.   Shifting to get them off, Joe panted with the exertion of it.    Emerson could see he was about to have a panic attack if he didn’t get a shower.

“Right, I’ll help you get in the shower, if you take three in and out deep breaths?  Ok?”  He waited for agreement in any form.  Joe, between gasps, nodded and tried to slow his breath down.

Emerson supported him in the shower, where he leaned against the wall with the hot spray and a bar of soap.  He didn’t want to leave him there alone, but he also didn’t want to soak his pajamas, so he pretended to tidy up the bathroom on the other side of the glass. 

Joe felt like he was spiraling down into the bottom of a deep hole.  At the moment, all he could focus on was his current surroundings, the gush of hot water and bar of soap.  His stomach would occasionally protest and he’d find himself heaving, gagging up small amounts of bile among the clouds of steam.  He felt trapped in a loop of trying to wash off the contamination, feeling sick, stomach twists around, kneel down and be sick, and then start all over again.  Emerson finally shut off the water and pulled him out of the shower.

“Love, this isn’t healthy for you.  We’ve got to get you lying down and consuming some kind of liquid.”  He pulled Joe over to the bed, so he could sit and dry off.  He had fresh pants and a sick basin just in case. 

“I can’t be ill in there,” Joe grumbled weakly, “it’s just filthy.  I’ll need another shower.”  Even with the protests, he crawled into bed and lay motionless under the duvet, closing his eyes and giving in to the fatigue.  Kent returned from the kitchen with a glass of mineral water. He slid his hand behind Joe’s neck.  “Drink this, love,” he urged

“I can’t.  I’ll be sick again.” Joe looked at him with wild eyes.

“What do you think is making you sick?”  Kent could see Joe’s anxiety mounting.

Joe frowned and gazed at Emerson with a side eye.  He took the glass of water and checked it for smudges before he sipped warily. 

“My OCD is getting a little out of hand.  I want to eat.  I feel hungry, but one little thing can turn me off the whole idea.”  Joe grimaced and wrapped an arm around his midsection.  “I don’t know what’s going on right now.  It could be the anxiety or it could be a virus or the chicken.  I’m guessing virus since I don’t get such awful stomach cramps with any regularity.”  He handed the water back to Kent and leaned back in bed.  “I’ll try to drink, but I’m afraid it’s going to come back up again.”  Joe pulled the duvet up and lay quietly.

Kent stood over him for a few minutes, hoping he would rest so that he could sneak into the other room and make a call.

***

“Hi, um, it’s Emerson, uh, Kent, sir.”  He stammered to Miles.  “I don’t know what to do with Joe.  He’s in a state and I’m not sure who to call.”  He paused and took a breath and listened for Miles’s voice on the other end.

“Kent?”  Miles sounded groggy.  It was well past 10 pm.  “What’s going on?  Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, sir.  It’s the DI, well, the problem’s with Joe.”  He stopped to gather his thoughts, “I tried to get him to eat something tonight, pretty difficult given his overwrought state, but he did.  I think it’s his anxiety that is making him ill.  He just spent the last hour vomiting up everything he ate today.”

“Has he been drinking?”  Miles was fully awake now.  He was glad Kent was there to be with Joe.

“He had a few glasses of wine with dinner, so yes.  But it wasn’t him downing most of a bottle of scotch on an empty stomach.”

“Well, is it a tummy bug?  The kids get them all the time.  Check for fever, that sort of thing.”

“I’m not sure.  That’s the thing.  I really felt that I did everything right to get him back into the swing of things and here he goes off down the rabbit hole puking his guts out.  He needs outside help.  I can’t do this by myself.”  Kent suppressed a sob and sniffed loudly into the phone.

“You’ve said it, mate.  He needs professional help.  Now, getting him there is the next struggle.”  Miles sighed.  “Do you want me to come over?”

“I don’t want you to, but I’m worried about him.  I’d like your opinion.” 

“Right.  I’ll be over in about an hour.  See if you can get him to drink something.”  Miles hung up, leaving Kent with a silent apartment.


	5. Hitting the Bottom

He padded in his stocking feet back to the bedroom.  There was a chill in the air.  Joe lay still, breathing softly.  His face was peaceful and calm for the first time in days.  His hair, usually tidy, was ruffled and it made him look younger.  Kent bent over him and placed a hand on his forehead.  It was cool.  Joe’s blue eyes opened instantly at the touch.  They were bloodshot. 

“You’re having a rough time of it, hmm?”  Kent murmured as he sat on the bed, stroking Joe’s shoulder through the duvet.  It was purple and soft and smelled faintly of cedar.  A sharp smell of bodies and sweat lingered.  Joe’s brow instantly became creased again and he nodded at Kent’s question.

“Can you manage to drink something?  If we can’t get you more hydrated, I’d like to take you in to see a doctor.”  Kent tried to sound as soothing as possible.  He held the glass of water up for Joe to see.  Joe shifted his body, and sat up against the pillows.  He took the glass and sipped carefully, handing it back to Emerson after a moment.

“It’s good.  Thanks.”  Joe smiled weakly at Kent. 

“Can you have a little more?”  Kent handed the glass back.

Joe shook his head no and clambered to get out of bed.  “Need the toilet.”  He pressed his arm into his belly and moaned.  Kent grabbed his free arm and helped him back to the bathroom, this time to sit on the toilet.  “Em, Em, Em, need a bin!”  Joe motioned for the wastebasket, which thankfully was empty.  He stood helplessly watching his boyfriend suffer through a cruel bout of simultaneous diarrhea and vomiting.  Joe was mostly occupied with staying upright and keeping various fluids off his clothes and skin.  He shook and sweated and groaned through the cramping pain.  It had to be a virus, Kent thought.  Anxiety wouldn’t do this.  If it were food poisoning, wouldn’t he also be ill?

When his body stopped the purging of noxious fluids, Joe sat up.  Kent handed him a towel and brought him immediately to the shower.  Joe whispered a thank you in his ear as the smaller man maneuvered Joe’s lanky figure into the glass box.  He went in with Joe this time, having to hold him up, for he could not stand unassisted. 

“You’re getting all wet, Em.” Joe touched Emerson’s wet, t-shirt clad chest. 

“It’s alright, Joe.  I hope this is the last of it and you can get some rest.”  Emerson had a strong grip under Joe’s arm.  He washed himself with the other arm as best he could. 

“I’m ok for a moment.  Can you get me a clean towel?  Not the one I was just touching…”  Joe leaned against the wall of the shower, his face gray.  Em could see his ribs more starkly from this angle and it upset him.  Joe found his legs trembling and his head spinning with embarrassment.  He was wet, and alternating between feeling cold and hot.

Emerson felt like he had only been gone for a few seconds, it was quick to grab a towel off the neatly organized shelf, but as he turned to go back to the bathroom, he heard a clattering.  He knew instantly that he’d find Joe on the floor.

First, he saw the perfect pink heel of his foot sticking out from the spray of the water.  Joe lay sprawled on the tile in the fetal position.  His heart sank, and he nearly fell himself running to turn the water off.  Joe was still breathing, pale and naked, with his cheek on the wet tile.  Em rolled him into the recovery position and draped a towel over his chilling form. 

After a few moments of trying to rouse him, Kent gave up the hope that he’d not need an ambulance.  He dialed 999 just at the doorbell rang.  He yanked open the door to reveal Miles, looking disheveled and worried.  Emerson spoke with the operator, giving the address, not saying a word to Miles, instead pointing him to the bathroom. 

“Oh my god, he looks awful!  What’s been happening?”  Miles knelt in the shower, soaking the knees of his trousers.  He felt for Joe’s pulse.  “How soon are they gonna get here?”  He barked at Kent, he snatched the phone out of Kent’s hands and began shouting at the person on the other end of the line.  He made sure to announce that Chandler was police and they needed to send their best crew. 

By now, Joe was starting to stir.  Miles yelling in the background may have had something to do with it.  He had a voice that penetrated the insensate, and Emerson filed that bit of trivia away for another more peaceful time.  Kent was by Joe’s side encouraging him to sit up.  He was disoriented and wondering why he was on the floor.  He moaned and asked for clothes as he pulled the towel tighter around himself.  Kent hopped up and began grabbing sweats for his friend, Miles unhelpfully crashed around the place like an angry rhinoceros.  He finally waited by the door and let the ambulance crew through.

The crew found their patient mostly aware of his surroundings.  He knew where he was and the day.  His blood pressure was very low, but beginning to rise as he realized he was the center of a big fuss.  Miles raised hell from the kitchen. 

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself!” He shouted with the crash of a kitchen cabinet.  “I told you to eat something.” Miles banged a bottle on the counter for absolutely no reason at all.  He appeared in the bathroom as the crew was assessing Joe, who was now being glib and charming.  His aim was to get them to leave him alone and play the whole situation off as a simple fall in the shower.  Kent stood silently shocked as the bodies whirled around him and Joe lied through his teeth about what happened.  Miles wouldn’t have it and outlined the situation in detail to the fellow who seemed to be in charge of the paramedics. 

“Joe, do you want to be escorted to the hospital by the ambulance?”  The large, uniformed man asked him.  He knew there was something off about this situation, but ultimately, their patient wasn’t concussed, his heart rate and blood pressure, while low, were not dangerous. 

“I should think not.” Joe didn’t want to go to the hospital, and since he was able to protest, they couldn’t take him out on a stretcher without his consent.  Miles fumed as the crew left. 

Emerson hovered beside Joe, who was pale and shaky, and very angry.  The crew had gotten him up, into pants, and back to bed before they packed up the equipment.   Joe resented Kent’s knee jerk reaction to call Miles.  He didn’t need to be there _every_ time he fell off the deep end.  The ambulance crew was an additional bit of shame to tack on to the top of everything.  He sipped at a glass of water and made no eye contact with Emerson. 

“I can tell you’re furious and you can be mad at me as much as you want.  We can deal with it later.  Please drink.”  Em’s eyes filled with tears. 

“I’m trying.”  Joe sighed and downed the glass in one go.  He was starting to regret it, both the chugging of the water and the snapping at his dear friend, but wasn’t able to hide it on his face.

“Don’t think about it.”  Em told him, handing Joe a book.  He watched his friend swallow a couple of times and blow out a long breath.  “Try to keep it down as long as you possibly can.  Miles is ready to haul you off to hospital, and I’m prepared to help him.  You heard what that paramedic said.  You have to take in fluids or you really will be going to hospital.” 

Joe moaned and clenched his jaw.  He blotted his face with a handkerchief.  Parting the pages of the book, he slid down in the covers to distract himself from the feeling of wanting to puke.

***

Kent and Miles left him to his misery and went into the kitchen to talk.  Kent found himself unable to do nothing and decided to make tea. 

“I think it’s a virus or food poisoning.”  Miles seemed much calmer now.  “But, he needs to see someone.”

“I know.  But don’t tell him it could have been the food.  He won’t let me make him dinner ever again.”  Kent switched on the kettle.  Had he accidentally wiped chicken onto Joe’s fork when he thought he was cleaning it?  Jesus.  Joe’s paranoia was beginning to wear off on him.

“He can’t function the way he’s going.”  Miles said, stating the obvious.  He sat on one of the stools in Chandler’s kitchen and carded his hands through his hair. 

“I can’t drag him to see a therapist.  I can only hope that the embarrassment of getting so ill that I had to call an ambulance will threaten him into taking this OCD stuff seriously.  Believe me, I’m well aware of this all.”  Kent pulled out two mugs and set them down with a harder than intended thunk.

They sat together in silence, waiting for the tea to be ready. 

“Whatever happens next, he has to admit that his pattern of behavior, the not-eating, weakened his body pretty severely.  Don’t let him come in tomorrow morning.”  Miles rubbed his trouser knees.  They were still wet and smelled of Joe’s soap.

“I’ll try to keep him here, but you know how he is.  Stubborn.  Emotionally distant.”  Kent pushed the sugar bowl toward Miles and handed him a spoon.  Emerson paused a moment with a horrified expression on his face. “Do you think I’m causing this?  He started losing weight just about the time we got together.  Shit.  I’m the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Miles nodded sagely as he added his usual three spoons of sugar to his tea.  “You’re probably onto something.  But, realize that none of this is your fault.  It is all got to do with the inside of Joseph Chandler’s head.  Is the relationship worth it?  You can be his friend and protect yourself.”

“I love him.  The beginning of our relationship has been like a dream for me.  But, now I’ve had the rug pulled out from under my feet and I have to wonder if Joe can handle being in a relationship with me.  I’m questioning reality.  Did I poison him?  No.  Is he so stressed out by being with me that he’s making himself ill?  I can’t be held responsible for that.  But I do feel like I’m slowly killing him, now that I’ve connected the dots.”  Kent’s head dropped slowly to the counter top and sobbed.  Miles watched his body convulse.  He grabbed him by both shoulders and squeezed.    

“I’m going to check on him and then you should get some sleep, hmmm?”  Miles pushed the half consumed cup of tea to the middle of the counter.  Kent nodded, not pulling his head up.  “You’re not killing him.”

Kent nodded again.  He wondered how a relationship could go so wrong when it seemed so golden and promising.  Be careful what you wish for.

***

Miles knew he was getting to be an old police officer.  Joe had called him wise, but he knew it was code for ancient.  Once upon a time, problems could be solved with a stiff drink and a few punches.  Now, he had endless conversations about feelings.  Sensitivity and understanding were the buzz words of the day.  While they had their merit, he was nearly done with it at this hour of the night.

He crept into the dimly lit bedroom.  The bed was empty.  That startled him out of his thoughts.  The light was on in the bathroom and he thought he could make out a backlit shape in the doorway.

“Joe?”

He cleared his throat and made a noise of affirmation.  “I’m here.  The bathroom is too far away from the bed.”

Miles made his way over to his colleague and friend.  He smiled to himself.  He knew there would be nothing to trip on in the dark, unlike his own bedroom floor.

“Have you been sick again?”  He asked as he sat down on the floor next to Joe.

“Just a bit.  Nothing like before.  And I’ve had a lot of water after.”  Joe rested his head on the doorjamb.

“Look.  Joe.  This is getting out of hand.  Kent is in the other room blaming himself for your situation.  He’s beating himself up over this, and while I don’t want to kick a man while he’s down, I feel I have to tell you.  Stop it.  Get help.  Kent hasn’t poisoned you.  Your own mind is poisoning you.  Life is messy and full of grime and you’ll not survive if you try to live in a sterile environment.”

Joe looked at him like he was going to start heaving at any moment.  Miles raised his hands up in surrender.  “What happened to your coping mechanisms?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t going to send the young DI into another panic attack.

Joe surprised him by laughing, and then clutching his sore sides.  “Ow.  Oh.  Kent gets upset when I drink.  And it only works for a short while.  Right now, I’m coping by keeping the germ-riddled world at bay.  It used to be enough to wash my hands or change my shirt, but it evolved into this.  I’m stuck in a cycle of panic attack, nausea, can’t eat.  Repeat.”

“How does Kent factor into this?  You went rapidly downhill after you two started seeing each other.”  Miles was afraid to pose the question.  He was a romantic at heart and wanted to see the two of them happy.  He mentally congratulated himself for not yelling or punching anyone at this phase.  He would need a lager later.

Joe shifted his body on the floor that was growing harder by the minute.  “Being with Kent is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.  The honest truth is that I’m not good with intimacy.  Physical or emotional.”  He stopped to sip from the ever-present glass of water.

“You’re an idiot,” Miles said, fondly.

“Thanks.  I know.  Oh, god, not again.”  Joe gulped and began crawling toward the toilet again.  He coughed and spat out a mouthful of bile.

Miles observed the process, and when he sat back, he helped Joe up, and got him back in bed.  He put the basin on the bed and handed Joe a clean cloth to wipe his face.    “You stay at home tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I can go anywhere ever again, Miles.”  Joe groaned from the bed.

“Be nice to Kent.  Stop puking.  Drink your water and try to eat something tomorrow.”  Miles gave him a last long-suffering look.  Joe nodded gamely and promised to try.  “If you don’t make an appointment to see a therapist, I’m going to Commander Anderson.”

Joe moaned from the bed.  It was all the energy he had left.  And now Miles was threatening him. 

“Maybe.”

***

Miles found Kent with his phone in his hand, lying on the sofa.  He was starting to look like Joe, now they had matching dark smudges under their eyes.  “You ok if I head back, son?  I can get a few hours sleep and then head in to the station.  Don’t come in tomorrow. Call me if he gets worse.”

“Ok.  Yeah.  Thanks, sir, for coming.  Let’s hope tomorrow is better.”  Kent sleepily walked Miles to the door and snapped it shut behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all who continue to read! I'm only partially finished with Chapter 6, so it may be a few days.


	6. Treatment

“Tell me why you’re here.”  Dr. Bronkov asked Chandler, tapping a pen on a pad of yellow, lined legal paper.

“I’m here, because my OCD is getting in the way of my daily functioning.”  Joe concentrated on breathing evenly.  He was hoping to be in and out in under an hour, maybe with a prescription clutched in his hand.  

“You didn’t make this appointment, did you?”  the dark skinned man asked him, his face inscrutable.  He sat behind a desk.  Joe thought that most psychologists wouldn’t want some large object getting in between them and a patient.  He hoped this fellow would allow him that distance.

“No.”  Joe looked down, watching the carpet, his eyes following the green vines on the surface.

His doctor’s lips quirked upward slightly.  “Who made this appointment, Joe?”

He sighed and shook his head slowly.  “My friend, Emerson, made it for me.”  He continued following the vine pattern with his eyes, and then decided to change tactics.  If he provided more information, he might get out of this office with a script and dry eyes.  “I collapsed a few weeks ago from a stomach flu.  It took me longer than usual to recover.  I was dehydrated and nearly needed IV hydration.  And I’ve taken a few weeks leave from my job as a detective inspector in the Whitechapel Police department.”

“And why was that?”

“It’s hard for me to say.”  Joe’s brown wrinkled with discomfort.  “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

The doctor continued gazing at his squirming patient.  “You can make some guesses.  You don’t have to be certain in here the way you have to be certain at your job.”  He held a cloth handkerchief in his hand, which he dabbed to his nose every few minutes.  He must have noticed Joe watching, and so he explained that it wasn’t contagious, he simply had allergies.

“My colleague, my right hand man, Miles, gave me an ultimatum.  I’ve been losing weight and dizzy.  It was entirely by accident.  My appetite has been like a gauzy thing that got upset by the lightest gust of wind.  I survived on protein bars and single serving containers of yogurt, I guess I still am.  I’m not worried about my body image, it’s the contamination.  My friend made me dinner, and I got really sick afterwards.  Since then, it’s been even more difficult to find things I’m comfortable eating.  I may have alienated my friend by accusing him of poisoning me as well.”  Joe found he couldn’t watch the doctor with his handkerchief anymore.  It made his brain itch. 

“Since this is affecting your life and your job, what are you willing to do to improve the situation?  I understand you have undiagnosed OCD?  Let’s start there.  I’m sure you realize that it’s going to be uncomfortable, but I can give you hope.”  The doc pocketed the handkerchief and stood.  He moved from behind the desk to a chair very close to Joe.

“Uh, I’d do almost anything to be able to have a normal relationship, and to maintain my health.  I used to box.  I had plenty of muscle.  I could break up a fight, chase a criminal for blocks, and now I get the spins walking up the stairs.  My brain knows I need to eat.  I know it.  I want to, but my gag reflex keeps getting triggered.”  Joe suppressed a sob.  He hadn’t been able to talk to Emerson about how he was part of the problem now.  He couldn’t eat at home.  He couldn’t do a restaurant.  Sealed packages in a contamination-free environment were as good as it got.  Emerson hadn’t stayed at his apartment for a week because Joe’s frustrations were driving him away.

“Joe, I think we should start you on a dose of antidepressant.  It can help you get a grasp on your mood.  If we can tone down the anxiety you feel back just a couple of notches, then it will be easier to work on setting you free from your compulsions.”  The doctor crossed his legs.  He still carried the pad and and pen.  He wasn’t making notes.  “Though I see in your chart that you have episodes of alcohol abuse.  Avoiding alcohol is important when taking this medication.  Do you feel it is possible to stop drinking now?”

“I think so.”  Joe felt like all the fun things in life were being taken away from him one at a time.  He sighed.  “I’ll follow the directions.  I want to get back to normal as quickly as possible.”  He shifted his body away from the doctor, aware that he sounded like a whiny child.  He needed to get out of the room.   It was stifling.

Dr. Bronkov must have sensed his patient’s desire to flee, so he stood again and handed Joe a prescription and a list.  It contained bullet points that he’d have to scan later. 

“How quickly you feel normal is entirely up to you.  Start taking the medication immediately.”  The doc tapped the paper with his finger and quirked his eyebrows,  “You’re gonna laugh, but be sure to take with food.  Whatever you can manage to eat is fine.  It’s important for the medication to build up in your blood stream, so don’t skip doses.  If you are having adverse reactions, suicidal thoughts that sort of thing, contact me immediately.  Lastly, there is a list for you.  Some homework, if you will before I see you on Friday.”  He opened the door and led Joe out into the empty reception area. 

Joe murmured his thanks, his head swimming with the information dump.  He stood for a moment, getting his bearings and then made his way quickly down to the car park.  Once inside his car, he was able to read the list. 

-Fill the prescription

-Take your first dose with the evening meal

-In your email is a link to a meditation.  You should listen to it before every meal.

-Make a list of foods you consider safe to eat

-Make a list of foods that disgust you

-Describe your ideal romantic relationship in a paragraph

-Make a list of the things you do to relieve anxiety

What was he going to do next?  Work on the list, he supposed.  Miles was leading his team as temporary DI.  Getting occasional texts from Miles made him feel both appreciated and useless.  They got on without him.  He had another two weeks to pull himself together.  Emerson was kind, but distant.  His on-and-off drinking and sudden plunge into fasting had stressed their new relationship. He was going to meet him tonight for a walk to chat about the psychologist visit.  He put the car into gear and drove back home.  There was a pharmacy just a block from his flat.

“Did you have your head shrunk yet?” a text from Miles arrived as Joe opened the door to his apartment.  It made Joe smile and roll his eyes a bit.  The paper wrapper from the medication crinkled when he sat it down on the counter.

“Don’t you have police work?”  Joe texted back, feeling rather loved and cared for by this gesture.  It made him forget for a moment that he was supposed to be eating lunch right now.  Emerson suggested setting an alarm so he didn’t forget.

He washed his hands, just once this time, dried them and opened the fridge.  He pulled out a cherry yogurt.  He’d eaten the same thing for breakfast.  Maybe he had better try the protein bar now so he didn’t get scurvy.  Replacing the yogurt, he closed the fridge and decided to wash his hands again just in case. 

The sun was streaming in his windows, so Joe decided to sit in the lounge chair on the balcony and slowly work on the bar.  It tasted dry and sweet.  He was getting tired of their bland wood pulpy texture.   He sipped from a bottle of Evian as he chewed.  There was a pad of paper on the table next to him he wanted to use to make his lists.  There was a faint pain in his stomach and he froze.  Taking another sip of water seemed to help, but that was it, he put the end of the bar down on the table unable to eat the rest.  His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Have you eaten yet?”  Em was texting him.  It must have been a slow day in the murder circuit.

“Yes.  Most of a bar.”  Joe sent his reply almost immediately.

“Good.  I bought you some canned salmon.  Try that for a snack?”  Em wasn’t subtle about his suggestions. 

“I’m looking forward to seeing you after work.” 

“Me too.”

Joe could feel the sun heating his skin and he relished it.  He even opened the first three buttons on his shirt to soak in a little extra vitamin D.  For the first time in a long while, Joe felt the glowing ember of hope in his chest and with any luck he could convince Emerson of the same thing tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Any brit pickers wanna piece of this?


End file.
